In Too Deep
by Charmjinxed
Summary: "This idea I had...it involves...involves..." Treven's gaze moved to the left of the room where his aquarium resided. Bingo. Treven felt the gears in her head start to spin as her trembling lips broke into a grin. "It involves water. Lots and lots of water." Welcome to the 68th Hunger Games.
1. Tides

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.**

Treven was so _screwed. _

This had never happened before. Year after year, Treven's routine went something like this: Wake up groggy from her maid's shouts. Shower, dress, and eat breakfast with her little brother. Then spend the rest of the day dilly-dallying around the Capitol until six in the evening. As Head Gamemaker, her arena idea was due at seven. She usually gave herself one hour before presentation time to quickly forge an idea and run some sentences through her head for her speech to make it look like she actually knew what she was talking about. No drafts, no brainstorm.

Of course, if her parents saw her like this, they'd go mad. Treven came from a family of wealthy Capitolites, and more importantly, from a short line of Head Gamemakers. Infamous for their lethal arenas, many other head figures in the Capitol learned to steer clear of the Treven family. After all, the perfect recipe for creating a Treven included a cold heart, a cup of manipulation, and a gallon of deceit. Stir well and you get a devil with a mind clouded with screams, blades, and blood.

First names didn't matter in this family. You were either a he-Treven or a she-Treven. In fact, their legacy was so strong that Treven didn't even remember her own name. Everyone addressed her as "Ms. Treven" or simply "Treven." During the rare times she had used her first name in her teens, many thought it was redundant. It eventually came to the point where she realized she shouldn't waste her breathe making a name for herself in Head Gamemaker business. She was just another Treven, just another branch in her family tree.

Unfortunately for her, she was probably the black sheep. No one knew what sort of thoughts ran through a Treven's mind but that was because Trevens always had a trick up their sleeves.

Not her. Her ideas ran blank. Her head was full of BS. In fact, it was BS every year. One year when she waltzed around the Capitol, she saw a woman eating an apple and immediately blurted out an arena of a farm the minute she rushed into President Snow's office. She knew it was the stupidest idea ever in the history of Panem but the way she talked it up-the mentions of the poisonous fruits, mutated and crawling insects, and harsh wind and rain-one would think the arena was a legacy in of itself.

Of course compared to her parents' and grandparents' arenas, hers looked like a shabby cottage next to a skyscraper. This was why she never bothered to try. She knew she couldn't live up to her elders, why waste effort? She was usually good at thinking on the spot anyway. But this year was different.

Now with only ten minutes left until the moment of truth, all she could think of was toast because that's what she would be if she didn't have something decent soon.

The door of President Snow's office opened. "Ten minutes, Ms. Treven."

She gritted her teeth as the messenger closed the door. As if she needed any reminders.

8 minutes.

Damn that clock's ticking. It was making her nervous.

6 minutes.

She wished her stomach would stop growling.

4 minutes.

Was it possible to build an arena based on toast?

2 minutes.

Probably not. Butter and jam didn't sound intimidating at all.

The door opened again. "Ms. Treven? You are expected."

Heart pounding, Treven did her best to stand without shaking. Images flashed before her eyes: Guillotines. Nightlock berries. A piece of rope carefully settling itself around her neck, the lever pulling, the inevitable grasping for oxygen and fighting for the last few seconds of life-

"Ms. Treven?"

Treven jerked away from her reverie and mumbled an apology before slowly walking inside the office as the messenger excused himself and closed the door.

President Snow shuffled some papers on his desk before turning his gaze towards her.

"Well Ms. Treven, I'm sure you know why we're here. Let's hear it."

"Um..." Treven mumbled intelligently. She did a quick sweep of Snow's desk. Nothing inspirational there. Her eyes shifted towards his bookshelf, scanning the titles. Nope. The guillotines and nightlock berries started making their way into her head again.

"Ms. Treven, I have dinner scheduled in an hour," said President Snow, tapping his fingers on his desk.

"R-right," stuttered Treven, thinking of a way to stall. "This idea I had...it involves...involves..."

Treven's gaze moved to the left of the room where his aquarium resided. Bingo. Treven felt the gears in her head start to spin as her trembling lips broke into a grin.

"It involves water. Lots and lots of water."

President Snow felt his lips curl at Treven's description of mutated sharks and elongated fish that could twist perfectly around a tribute's neck. He nodded when she started to explain the technical issues of oxygen and pressure and how she would make sure the arena wouldn't be a huge advantage for District 4. His eyebrows rose, impressed at the possibilities of underwater volcanoes and quakes and his mind was swimming with so many images, he almost forgot about supper.

Snow quickly cleared his throat. "Thank you, Treven. That will be all."

Treven nodded and started towards the door but not before a small chuckle stopped her dead in her tracks.

"You're lucky I admire piranhas."

Treven quickly stopped a shiver, her back still turned to the president.

"Do not make the same mistakes as your parents and grandparents."

Treven nodded again before continuing towards the door, heart pumping and screaming furiously at her feet to keep a steady pace. Be calm. Be cool. Be collected.

After she exited the room and walked a good few steps away from the door, she rewarded herself by sinking slowly into a chair in the hallway. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Of course he knew. Of course he knew she was a procrastinator. She was probably the laziest Head Gamemaker he'd ever hired.

But she was good. Maybe not as good as her ancestors, but few Gamemakers could even hope to compare to her. The past few Games had proved just that.

Thing is though, she didn't give a damn about her job, or even the Hunger Games for that matter. Heck, she probably wouldn't care if President Snow brought in her brother and have him decapitated right then and there.

But she did give a damn about her life. And when you care about something, the President will definitely put it to good use.

Treven sighed and reached into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Smoothing it out gently, she consulted the tribute list, carefully reading each name.

**District 1 (Luxury)**

Male: Marble Monarch (17)

Female: Chanel Plush (18)

**District 2 (Masonry)**

Male: Scott Varick (18)

Female: Clymene Maurer (18)

**District 3 (Technology)**

Male: Rick Corr (15)

Female: Digital Jones (13)

**District 4 (Fishing)**

Male: Myure Trennor (17)

Female: Leau Spencer (16)

**District 5 (Power)**

Male: Connor "Chance" Knox (18)

Female: Jayden Keynes (15)

**District 6 (Transportation)**

Male: Rosh Tully (12)

Female: Cassiopeia "Cass" Garner (17)

**District 7 (Lumber)**

Male: Linden Woodloft (17)

Female: Ivy Terra (16)

**District 8 (Textiles)**

Male: Justin Sinclair (18)

Female: Calico Cambrie (16)

**District 9 (Grain)**

Male: Mortimer "Morty" Drake (15)

Female: Melissa "Melly" Maize (12)

**District 10 (Livestock)**

Male: Xerath Gosses (14)

Female: Amabel Linnet (15)

**District 11 (Agriculture)**

Male: Lucian Gray (13)

Female: Rose-Mary Telesco (13)

**District 12 (Mining)**

Male: Colton Burnet (17)

Female: Azolla "Zee" Caster (16)

Just another year. Just another game. Just another routine of BS and impress. And she sure hoped the tributes could impress.

**Hope you liked the prologue! I'd love it if you guys could answer some of the questions I have for you at the end of the chapter. (But of course, it's not mandatory).**

_**What do you think of the arena?**_

_**What do you think of the Head Gamemaker?**_

_**How was my writing?**_

**Submit tributes by PM ONLY. Submitted tributes in a review will not be accepted and will put this story in danger for deletion. Sorry to those who don't have accounts. **

**Tribute form and rules are on my profile. The tribute list will be updated periodically. If I haven't responded to your PM or if your tribute's name is not on the list, it means that I'm either waiting for the reserved tribute or I'm still in the middle of making my decision.**

**I will be having one of my own tributes in this story. In the end I decided to scrap my original tribute "Kit" because she's already in another SYOT and there was really no point (save for some small differences) in writing her again. Thus, the District 3 female spot is now open. ****But of course, that still doesn't mean my tribute is going to win. Don't let that deter you from submitting.**

**Note for future chapters: This is the Hunger Games. There will be violence and at some points, harsh language. I refrained from the latter here, but you can expect some in later chapters. So please don't call me out on it.**

**Happy submitting! Looking forward to receiving your tributes!**


	2. Plunge

**I'm terribly sorry you had to wait almost two weeks before this got updated. This was due to me waiting for the districts to be filled with two tributes before writing the reapings, talking with some authors over profiles, waiting for the beta-reader to finish editing and a bunch of other stuff. I'm not blaming any of these people; it was just the way things are but hopefully I can update this story once a week now that most of the spots are filled.**

**Though they were previously reserved, the D3 female spot and the D10 male spot is now fully open though I'd like to give new readers a chance to submit if they don't already have a tribute in the story.**

***Update: Scratch that, they're filled. I just need to talk with the authors over some profiles before updating the list.**

**And lastly, thanks to NenPame for beta-reading this chapter and the previous one.**

**This chapter features the reapings of District 1, 2, and 4.**

**District 1**

Invincible.

Indestructible.

Invulnerable.

This was the way Marble felt every time he sliced off a training dummy's limb or stabbed it right in the chest. Power gripped him every time he held a blade and he continued to fuel it by picturing the shocked faces of each tribute as he drove his weapons into their flesh. This was how he should feel, what a victor should feel.

Right before he could severe the dummy's head, the door of the training room swung open. "Marble? You're missing the screening. And how the heck did you get in here anyway?"

Marble kicked a set of keys towards his sister standing in the doorway. "Snuck into your room last night. Being the brother of a victor has its perks, don't you think?"

"Yeah, like me not bashing your skull against the head of that dummy, you dummy. C'mon, everyone's supposed to be in the main room."

"I already know what they're showing; I know it by heart."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean-"

"Aren't you sick of watching it too, Ruby? Seeing Magnus die again and again every damn year? And at the hands of lower tributes, no less!"

Marble felt his blond hair give a slight rustle before hearing the distinct _thwack _of a knife pinning itself into the wall behind him. Unmoving, he narrowed his eyes at Ruby who had her arm extended before her, hand still positioned in the follow-through motion.

"You think you're sick just because you've seen your brother die hundreds of times? Try being in an actual arena. Now try playing Magnus' death again in your head. Every scream, every stab, every betrayal becomes real because you understandit. You've felt it, you've done it, you remember it. Every time that clip plays I always end up back in the arena. I go through everything again: the hunger, the blood, the cannons, everything. I'm no longer a victor. I'm a tribute, fragile and breakable."

"Then why? Why do you obey Head Trainer Luxtivia and continue to wach it?"

Ruby smiled. "That's the price of honor and glory, Marble. Things don't stop when you win the Games. Look at me, mentoring and training and all. These are just things I have to deal with. But I don't regret volunteering and neither will you."

Marble allowed himself a small grin. Honor. Glory. He could just reach out and grab them.

"C'mon." Ruby placed her arm around her brother's shoulders. "The screening is almost over but this is the last time I'll be bailing you out. Luxtivia loathes me."

* * *

Chanel didn't even blink as she watched the two teens dive their blades into the chest of District 1's male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games. She'd seen him before at the training center (Magnus Monarch, she believed was his name) but she's never spoken to him once. Then again, she didn't talk to many people.

The screen suddenly went black as Head Trainer Luxtivia pressed the power button on the remote. "Can anyone tell me what he did wrong?"

A dozen or so hands shot up in the air.

"Bentley."

"He ditched his ally. If he hadn't killed her, they could have teamed up together to overpower the tributes from 9 and 10. Then he could simply turn around and finish her off himself."

_Not really, _thought Chanel. _His ally could've easily killed him first before taking on the remaining tributes herself. The ones from 9 and 10 were younger and smaller than Magnus; he should've tried to separate them instead of charging them both head on._

Someone nudged her shoulder. Turning, she found herself facing her friend, Silver. "You know the answer don't you, Chanel?" asked Silver, smiling warmly. "Go on, raise your hand."

Chanel hesitated and stared at Luxtivia who was busy scouting for other raised hands. To Luxtivia's, left stood Chanel's personal trainer, Posh, who gave a wink and nudged her head towards Luxtivia, mouthing the words, "Go for it."

Chanel raised her arm slightly but after hovering for a few seconds, she eventually settled to scratching her face.

The entrance doors of the main room suddenly opened. Everyone's heads turned as Trainer Ruby and Marble walked in. Ruby strutted over to Luxtivia, flashing a smirk at her irritated glare before engaging in small talk, gesturing to her brother.

Marble merely walked past the curious eyes of the other trainees, stopping short just before the exit of the Training Center. While he waited for Ruby, his eyes landed on Chanel, stoic.

Chanel immediately tore her eyes away. Did she do something wrong? That was his brother on the television wasn't it? Was he angry at her for watching him die? She was glad she didn't raise her hand.

Ruby looked up from her conversation with Luxtivia and gave Marble a curt nod. Marble nodded back before turning on his heel and walking out the double doors.

"Ahem."

The remaining trainees diverted their attention back to Luxtivia. "Well, as I'm sure you are aware, today is the reaping." Chanel had to bite her lip to keep herself from giggling as Posh made silly faces behind Luxtivia as she spoke. "Don't be late. Remember your training and may the odds be ever in your favor. You are excused."

There were loud scuffles as people picked themselves off from the floor mixed with the excited chatter of trainees debating on whether green or blue was a better dress color for the reapings or placing bets on who would volunteer this year. As expected, Chanel didn't hear her name amongst them.

No one wanted a Career with autism to volunteer.

* * *

"Dude, nice tux. That new?"

Bronze's voice overlapped the narrator of the video recapping the Dark Days, not that Marble had been paying attention in the first place anyway.

Marble smirked at his friend. "Yeah. My mom gave it to me the night before."

"Lucky. I've been wearing this one for about four years. It's all about Bentley now, according to my parents because he's gonna be 'such a perfect victor.' I hate being the youngest brother. Hey, you're volunteering this year right?"

"Hell yeah."

Bronze gave a low whistle. "Better get up that stage quickly. This is Bentley's last year; he'll do anything to get in." He nodded at the section of 18-year-olds. Unlike the other age groups who whispered to their friends or simply looked bored during the video, the teens in the eldest section looked deadly. Their fingers gripped the ropes at the edge of their section, eyes narrowed and focused. Many either bent their knees or crouched down, muscles tensed and ready to run like predators ready to pounce on their prize.

Marble frowned as he turned back to Bronze. "This was supposed to be my year," he hissed. "The Trainers at the center chose _me_ to volunteer_._"

Bronze shrugged. "You still have one year left."

Marble whipped his head back towards the Justice Building. Stairs. Stage. Microphone. He could do this.

As the video came to a close, District 1's escort – a woman with an apparent obsession of purple – got up from her seat and walked towards the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games!" she chirped brightly. "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor."

The second she turned her heel towards the male's reaping ball, Marble acted. But he wasn't the only one to do so.

Boys all around him burst from their sections. Trainees slammed into each other, putting their close-combat sessions at the Center to good use as they knocked out teeth and broke bones. Grunts, shouts, and the occasional high-pitched screams filled the air as Marble pushed Bronze aside and bolted for the stage. But there was only one voice his ears clung to and it wasn't the cheering from Ruby nor was it the shouts from his parents.

It was Magnus. His dying screams and the boom of a canon from the footage he'd memorize so well was all it took for Marble to grab Bentley's dark hair and yank him back, clearing his way towards the stage.

Rushing up the stairs, Marble sprinted towards the escort. She shrieked in surprise and frantically took a few steps backward but not before Marble grabbed the microphone from her hands and said, breathlessly, "I...I volunteer. My name...is Marble...Monarch."

The microphone caught every pant between his words. Even so, he managed to say with confidence that District 1 could expect another win from the Monarch family before thrusting the microphone back at the escort who snatched it back angrily.

"And now," said the escort as her mouth fixed itself back into a smile, "for your girls."

"CHANEL VOLUNTEERS!"

Heads turned towards the back of the crowd, honing in on a woman shoving her way from the family section towards the pathway that led towards the stage.

Startled, the Peacekeepers moved forward. One tried to grab her arm but she merely slapped it away and shouted once more, "Chanel volunteers. No one else, you got it? You." The woman pointed to the 18-year-olds section. "Yes, you stupid girl, get out of the way. You too; don't give me that look. All of you get away from the front, make a path. Chanel, you walk towards that stage right now, you hear me?"

One of the girls towards the front glared at the woman. Her knees were bent, it was obvious she had been preparing to sprint towards the stage. One of the boys in the same section placed his hand on her shoulder and slowly guided the girl towards the side. The girl's eyes eventually lost their confidence and she looked away. Because if her eyes were shooting daggers, the woman's were hurling swords.

Chanel didn't say a word as she slowly made her way through her section. Avoiding eye contact with the other teens, she walked past the woman who gave her a satisfied nod before returning to her place with the other families and putting the rest of the Peacekeepers at ease.

"Well...I believe we have a volunteer!" said the escort, fingers dropping the unread slip of paper back into its bowl. "What's your name dearie?"

Behind her, Marble rolled his eyes. Where had the woman been in the last few seconds?

Chanel scratched her face before answering, "Chanel Plush."

"That was your mother back there, wasn't it?"

Chanel nodded.

"Well, it's always nice to see support from family. Tributes, shake hands!"

Chanel held out her non-scratching hand and looked down, determined not to look into her district partner's face. Marble grabbed her hand and gave it a rough shake before turning back towards the crowd and grinning at Ruby who smiled back.

It was a shame she wouldn't be a mentor this year. Then again, she could be accused of being biased but it was she who gave him the confidence he needed. If she became a victor, so could he.

Magnus started making his way back inside his head. _Stop it, _Marble told himself. _I am invincible. I am indestructible. I am invulnerable._

_And I will win._

* * *

**District 2**

Five.

That number has been engrained in Scott's mind ever since he could remember. Five kills. His father, Mace Varick, had achieved five kills during the 52nd Hunger Games in which he came out victorious.

Five was the number to beat, six was the number to reach. Or seven. Or eight. Or all twenty-three.

Scott laughed to himself as he picked up another knife. Twenty-three kills, wouldn't that be legendary? Not to mention impossible with all those other Careers vying for fame and fortune.

No matter, just as long as he beat five. He wouldn't settle for less.

He wouldn't settle for less than six perfect bulls-eyes in a row or running less than six miles in one go. Everything had to be over five. Anything under was an embarrassment and unworthy of a victor.

Scott twirled the knife in his hands before readying a stance in front of another target. He had already plunged four knives into the heart of the dummies before him. At least two more to go.

Taking a deep breath, Scott narrowed his eyes before flinging his knife towards the dummy, lodging it in the chest just centimeters away from the heart.

"Dammit!" Scott hurled his remaining knife towards the same dummy, straight into the eye socket. "Damn it all!"

Scott glanced at the wall clock as he began pulling out the knives from the dummies. It read 5:34; Scott had purposely chosen to train at an early hour. The doors of the Training Center opened as early as 5:00 AM but classes didn't start until 6:00. Most of the trainees were still in bed right now, just as Scott liked it. A deserted training room meant no snarky remarks or empty words of encouragement that only angered Scott even more when he missed a target or lost a sparring match.

_It's fine, you're only sixteen. You're young; most trainees at the age of 18 can't even get five bulls-eyes in a row._

But Mace did. At the age of sixteen, he could perfectly spear a row of ten dummies square in the chest.

_That guy was stronger than you, taller. You put up a good fight but there was no way you could've beaten him._

At the age of fourteen, Mace was able to pin down a trainee twice his size.

Scott just wished they'd all shut up. The only encouragement he needed was the look on his father's face once he saw how great of a Career his boy had become. Not of approval, but of shock. Surprise. Defeat.

Of course, no matter how many records Scott may have broken at the Center, he'd never know what kind of response he'd get from his father. Mace taught classes, of course, but Scott never had him as a teacher. It didn't take long for Scott to realize it had been orchestrated as such.

No matter. Once he won the Games, he'd show him.

* * *

"I don't even know why you're telling me this," said Clymene as she adjusted her golden earrings that complimented her hazel eyes. "If you want to try and take my spot as a tribute this year, be my guest but if I were you, I'd keep my plans to myself."

"I want it to be a fair fight," said Clymene's sister, Sabina. "Without my element of surprise, we're on the same level. Beating you fair and square is much more satisfying."

Clymene laughed. "We are not on the same level. I've got more years of training under my belt. You're only fourteen, wait a few more years."

"This is your last year," said Sabina as she watched Clymene fix her hair. "Sparring matches and obstacle course rounds can only prove so much. If I can beat you to the stage and win the Games, it'll prove I'm superior. Besides, I'm not the only one with a disadvantage..."

Clymene nearly growled as she whipped around to glare at her sister. Just as she was about to spit out something sarcastic, her mother, Flavia, rushed downstairs to attack her with a hug.

"Oh, Clymene, you look so beautiful! Doesn't she, Sabina?"

Sabina rolled her eyes. "Sure, mother."

"Now, don't take it too hard if someone beats you to the stage all right? All that training you did can still be put to good use as a mentor in the Center. But you're a fighter, Clymene. I have high hopes for you."

Clymene merely stood still as Flavia pulled her into another hug. She knew her mother meant well. After all, Flavia had allowed training to dominate her own teenage life only to have a stronger competitor beat her to the stage when she was eighteen. But history wouldn't repeat itself, not this year.

_No, _thought Clymene as she glanced past her mother's shoulders to meet Sabina's smirk. _Definitely not this year._

* * *

From behind the rope sectioning off the 18-year-olds, Scott prepared himself to run. Or shove. Or punch. Anything that would get him towards the stage.

He was lined up next to other potential volunteers for the year who readied themselves for the inevitable fight once the escort slipped her hand into the reaping ball. Scott thought he had been the "chosen" one from the Center but apparently the other trainers didn't get the memo. He didn't doubt that Mace was one of them.

Whatever, he was only going up against seven or eight trainees. Behind him, those who weren't hand selected backed away from the front of their section to give those like him room to battle it out. To the sides, girls from every section either swooned or promised kisses to the winning volunteer.

Scott ignored them. The other boys, meanwhile, drank in all the attention. As the video came to a close and the escort stood up from her seat, they waved back, whistled, and blew kisses.

Which is why, when the escort reached into the male reaping ball, the other boys turned back only to find an empty spot in the left corner, rope still swinging in place, and Scott shooting towards the stage already three meters ahead.

Scott grinned at the gaping mouths at the front of the crowd as he gladly accepted the microphone the escort handed to him.

"Hellooooooooooo District Two!"

The crowd erupted into cheers but Scott could spot a handful of people side glancing at one another, whispering. Scott knew all too well what they were saying.

"Look. It's Mace Varick's bastard."

_That's right, _thought Scott. _Mace Varick's bastard beat you all to the stage._

That was the title Scott had been given his entire life. It was a common occurrence in District Two for many girls to bed themselves with Hunger Games candidates, hoping that if the tribute comes home a victor, they would get a one way ticket to a life of ease and luxury. When Mace returned however, he pushed away his son, regarding him as only an adoring fan when Scott tried to make contact. Thus, Scott was left with a single mother who took on three jobs to make ends meet.

Scott had been ready to say all this, ready to leash out his anger at Mace and at others who constantly compared him to his father, even though he did as much himself. The microphone was still in his hands, ready to envelope the entire district in his words.

Instead, he merely smiled and said, "My name is Scott Varick and I look forward to becoming this year's victor." And with that, he handed the microphone back to the escort and took his place on the side of the stage as the crowd cheered once more.

Patience. He'd get a chance to show them soon. After all, actions spoke louder than words.

* * *

Clymene smirked at the girl next to her who had a look of disgust on her face when she realized she had just promised a kiss to Mace Varick's bastard. Beside her, her friend Camilla gave a small chuckle.

"You ready?" asked Camilla as the escort walked towards the girl's reaping ball.

"Always."

"Good luck."

"Ladies," said the escort as she drew up a piece of paper. "Your female tribute for this year is-"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Clymene didn't know who shouted nor did she care. The girl was just wasting her breath while she could've been sprinting towards the stage as Clymene did.

She smirked when she realized that she had left the brunt of the fight behind her, shrieks and grunts barely reaching her ears. What she did not anticipate, however, was the yanking of her hair as Sabina flew past her.

Oh no, she didn't.

With a growl, Clymene grabbed a hold of Sabina's foot, grinning when she heard a yelp as her sister's face met the floor. But Sabina wasn't giving up that easily. Sticking out her leg, she waited for Clymene to lose her foot before gripping her shoulders and pinning her on the cement.

Sabina smirked but before she could make a snarky remark, another girl bolted right past the two sisters. Sparing only a second to glance at each other, the two girls immediately scrambled to their feet, each latching on an arm of the girl and pulling her back. Making a split-second decision, Clymene immediately shoved the girl towards Sabina. The squeal of both girls as they landed on the floor only made it more satisfying when Clymene reached the stage a few moments later.

The crowd went wild, cheering louder than they had for Scott with bright smiles on their faces which Clymene did not return.

"That was quite a fight there, dear!" exclaimed the escort as she clapped with the audience. "What's your name?"

"Clymene Maurer."

"That was your sister who challenged you to the stage wasn't it?"

Clymene narrowed her eyes at the two girls still sprawled across the cement. "Yes." The girl Clymene had shoved into Sabina gave a small squeak but Sabina merely glared back.

"But you wouldn't let her steal all the glory, would you? Well congratulations to the both of you," said the escort as she gestured to the teens on the stage. "District Two, I present you your tributes: Scott Varick and Clymene Maurer!"

As the crowd burst into another round of applause, Clymene caught Sabina's eye. She too was clapping, but a hint of a smirk etched itself on her face as she mouthed the words, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Clymene suppressed a growl. She knew her little...disadvantage could be a setback. But the odds were still in her favor. She'd make sure of it.

* * *

**District 4**

"I got a bite! I got a bite!"

The string at the end of Myure's fishing pole tugged, forcing him on his feet as he struggled to balance on the boat.

"Steady, steady." Myure's friend, a middle-aged man named Traut, sat nearby with his own fishing pole in the water and his eye on Myure.

This was a typical day for Myure and Traut. Traut had been acting as a father figure for Myure ever since the capture of his parents by a riot opposing the elite class of District 4. The Resistance, as the rioters called themselves, was eventually defeated by the Peacekeepers who ordered them to release all kidnapped citizens. Unfortunately, it was too late for Myure's parents for the rioters decided to have a little fun hanging and whipping their prisoners to death before planning their next move. Since then, Myure had been on his own, save for a couple of other homeless children he'd encountered as he wandered around the district.

He'd met Traut when he tried to steal an ice box of trout off his boat. Initially, Traut had been ready to report Myure to the Peacekeepers but when he saw the boy's hungry face, he decided to teach him a thing or two about fishing. The two have been inseparable ever since.

Even so, Myure always got excited when he felt a tug of a fish struggling on the hook. Myure's pole bent towards the water as he cranked the reel furiously, pulling both arms back to prevent him from going overboard. His face broke into a grin when he saw the familiar green head of a trout poking through the surface, tail still splashing in the water.

Satisfied, Myure unhooked his catch before stunning it with a wooden dowel as Traught had taught him to do and tossing it into the ice box. Traught immediately marched over with his own trout before knocking it on the head and throwing it next to Myure's fish.

"Not bad, not bad," said Traut as he closed the ice box. "We got a good haul today."

"Then why stop?" asked Myure as Traut gathered up the fishing poles and bait. "It's still light out."

"The reaping will be starting soon."

Myure froze. "Oh, right." How could he forget?

It took about twenty minutes for Traut to steer the boat back towards the shore. The dock was teeming with fishermen descending down the ramps with their catch and poles. A few children were taking their last glances at the sea; one girl tossed a bottle with a message in the water. Probably saying her last prayers or good-byes. Though they were technically a Career district; it was usually hit and miss. Some years they had volunteers; some years they didn't. Myure hoped this wasn't one of those unlucky years.

"Will you be all right?" asked Traut as he secured his boat to the dock.

Would he? Myure took out tesserae for himself so he had roughly twelve slips in the reaping ball. It could've been worse. Plus, there were always those blood-thirsty teens from the Training Center to take his place if his name was ever called.

"I'll live."

* * *

_I'm volunteering today._

_Yes, me. The trainers decided it was to be me and it's no secret why. Honor's death has put a black stain on the district, the training center, and our family. At least, that's what everyone is saying. I don't say anything. I just train and do shit that gets me into trouble. My head doesn't give me a break though. I'm afraid to dream because when I do, I see him. Him abusing me. Him yelling at me, insulting me, blaming me for mom's death. Does he blame me for his? If I hadn't found his suicide letter, I'd have answered yes._

_I'm scared. I know I don't show it, but I'm terrified. Not of the Games, but of what comes after. Look at Honor. The Hunger Games broke him, it drove him to kill himself and I'm afraid it'll break me too. I'm not worried about the Games, I know I can win. But winning as myself, that's playing an entirely different game. I'm scared of losing to myself and I hate that. _

_The reapings are starting soon so I'll just end this here. But I'm not saying good-bye. This won't be the last time you'll hear from me. I'll come back. And when I do, I'll write more than ever before. Maybe writing these things are what will keep me sane when I win._

Leau glanced at her piece of parchment after adding the period on the last sentence. Her writing had gotten messier (the rock she was writing on didn't help at all) but she stopped caring about that a long time ago. No one was going to read these anyway. And if they did, they wouldn't know it was from her. That was the point.

Scrambling to her feet, Leau rolled up her parchment before squeezing it into a bottle and tightly sealing it with its cap. The breeze ruffled her blonde hair as she approached the calm waters of her district, inhaling the salty air. Boats docked on either side of her, passengers exiting their vessels to prepare for the reaping. She'd join them soon, but she needed to do this first.

Taking one step back, Leau swung her arm forward with all her might, releasing the bottle into the waves. It bobbled up and down, bumping into the occasional boat, until the water carried it further into the ocean where Leau's sea-green eyes could follow it no more.

But Leau still wasn't finished. Stripping off her shoes and socks, Leau waded her feet into the water until she could see her reflection in the waves. Her face was emotionless. Her lifeless eyes and thin mouth gave it away. She should fix that.

Lifting up the corners of her mouth did wonders but it was nothing compared to what she could do with her eyes. Narrowing them slightly, she made them gleam and glint, reconstructing her face into a perfect smirk. When she looked back at her reflection again, she saw a Career. A fighter. A victor.

Now she was ready.

* * *

"Hey Myure, do you think there'll be any volunteers this year?"

"Ouch." Myure flinched as the Peacekeeper extracted blood from his finger before turning to his friend, Ross. "We had a couple last year."

"Yeah but that was the year our male tribute got beheaded by that girl from seven," said Ross as he and Myure made their way to the 17-year-old section. "Doubt any of them want to volunteer to get their heads sliced off. Have you seen Sue?"

Myure shrugged. He, Ross, and Sue normally stood next to each other in the reapings. Myure met the two of them when the Resistance kicked him out of his home. Despite his hatred for those in the lower class since that was where most of the rioters came from, he'd formed a special bond with Ross and Sue who were also homeless. They roamed throughout the district scavenging for food and often fished with Traut but during the reapings, they held hands, crossed fingers, and prayed the other wouldn't be reaped.

"Hi guys!"

"Sue!"

Sue emerged from the back, smiling before she engulfed both boys in a hug. "Good luck."

"You too," said Myure as he took her hand in his and Ross' in the other.

They stayed in that position throughout the entire duration of the propaganda film. When the escort stood up and walked towards the microphone, Myure tightened his grip on both hands.

"Ladies, first." The escort walked towards the reaping ball on the left and reached for a slip of paper. Clearing her throat, she unfolded the slip.

"Sue Kendra."

No.

No.

This was not happening.

"Myure."

Myure turned to look at Sue, her eyes brimming with tears as she spoke softly, "Let go of my hand."

"No." Myure tightened his grip even more. "No, Sue, don't go."

"Let her go." Warmth left his right hand as Ross trudged over and gently prided Myure's left hand off Sue's. "We'll see you in the Justice Building, Sue," said Ross.

Sue nodded as she walked down the path the 17-year-olds had cleared for her. But Myure wasn't letting her go that easily.

"Myure, no!"

Myure tore himself out of Ross' grip and bolted towards Sue. But before he could grab her hand again, someone tackled him from behind.

"Grab his other hand," said the Peacekeeper as he clutched Myure's arm.

"Sue!" Myure thrashed against the Peacekeepers' hold, kicking, jabbing, and scratching. She couldn't go. She wasn't trained to be a killer; heck she had gotten teary-eyed the first time the boys took her fishing. There had to be someone else. Wasn't anyone willing to-

"I volunteer!"

* * *

To be frank, Leau hadn't even noticed the escort announcing the female tribute. She had been too busy laughing at her boyfriend, Caspian's joke, until her other friend, Daria, nudged her in the arm and pointed to the girl walking towards the stage and the boy making a scene as the Peacekeepers tried to keep him under control.

After thanking Daria and pecking Caspian on the check, Leau stepped from the crowd to make her grand entrance.

"I volunteer!"

The shocked look on the thrashing boy's face was somewhat amusing. "You're welcome," said Leau as she passed him on her way to the stage. "You can go back in line now."

The escort looked relieved when she passed the microphone over to Leau. Thanks to her, District 4 had managed to avoid another in-denial reaping outburst.

Leau flashed the crowd and the cameras a smirk before speaking into the microphone. "My name is Leau Spencer and I am so _honored _to be this year's female tribute. You won't be disappointed, I promise you!"

She made sure to stress the word "honored." As the crowd cheered, she scanned the audience for her trainers. _I won't turn out like him, _she thought when she spotted her them clapping with stern faces. _I won't fail like he did. _Nevertheless, she let her smirk linger for a few more seconds before handing back the microphone to the escort.

"And now, for your male tribute."

Fingers dove into the reaping ball again before revealing another slip of paper. "Myure Trennor!"

_There's my district partner, _thought Leau as she watched the same thrashing boy separate himself from the crowd for the second time that day and trip while doing so. _Seems competent._

The Peacekeepers standing to the side tensed for another tantrum but Myure had apparently learned his lesson as he calmly walked towards the stage and up the steps. His legs weren't shaking, lips didn't tremble. But it was his eyes that gave it away. And when Myure stuck out his hand for a handshake, his expression was clear:

_Help me._

**I hope I did your characters justice! Some friends and family I didn't include because I didn't want to drag out the reapings or I felt they wouldn't do much in driving the plot. Some of them may remain unwritten but I do plan on addressing more as the story progresses even though I don't plan on writing the Good-byes.**

**There's a chance I may have interpreted your characters differently which I warned you about in my profile. I may also have changed a few aspects of their personality/history on purpose in order to ensure that each tribute gets a distinct voice without one being similar to the other but I tried not to make too big of a change. I still hope I wrote them to your liking.**

**Also, I know there may be some unanswered questions about tributes like in Clymene's case but hopefully you'll find answers as the story continues.**

**Finally, this should be general knowledge but I'll say it here just in case. Personalities may not be fully fleshed out in the beginning because that's the beauty of character development. But as I said before, I still hope I did your characters justice. **

**I'd love it if you guys could answer some of the questions I have for you at the end of the chapter. (But of course, it's not mandatory).**

**_Which tribute from this chapter stood out to you?_**

**_How was my writing? Constructive criticism is welcomed._**

**Expect an update in about a week! You can check my profile for story updates/status.**


	3. Splash

**I know, I know, I'm a terrible person. I had three parties back to back (one for my birthday and two for independence day). I didn't have much time for the computer this week on top of my basketball practices other summer classes. So once again, I'm so sorry for the delay. I'll make it up to you guys somehow, though, maybe update two chapters in one week or something. I don't know when that will be but I'll make it up to you! **

**My beta-reader was on vacation so even though I went through and edited the document, there may still be some mistakes. Sorry for that.**

**And lastly, I only had time for two district reapings this week. Sorry again.**

**This chapter contains the reapings of District 3 and District 6. I skipped the District 5 reapings for reasons which will be made clear soon.**

**District 3**

Being a teenager sucked.

Well for one, you're eligible for the Hunger Games. And two, no matter what you do, it's never good enough. You're too young to be taken seriously and too old to act childishly.

Hence, why most of the shouting in the Jones household found its roots in Digital.

"I wanna go! I wanna go!"

"Sorry, kiddo," said Digital's older brother, Data, as he ruffled her hair. "It's just going to be me and Mom."

"But Dad's hurt!"

"You don't know that."

Oh, Digital knew plenty. She knew that something was wrong as soon as she saw her mother's grave face when she walked through the door. She knew that her family would never allow her to join them as they tried to figure out a solution. And she knew that when they couldn't, they would come back with weak smiles as they sweetly tried to explain the problem with carefully chosen words.

Because she was obviously just a child who couldn't understand.

"Bolt will stay home with you and help you prepare for the reaping," continued Data as he put on a coat. "Stay out of trouble, okay, kiddo? See you in a few hours."

"But I wanna go..." Digital whispered as the door closed.

"Digital, where are you?"

Digital sighed at the sound of Bolt's voice. "I'm coming."

She turned on her heel and walked towards the kitchen to find her other brother sitting at the dining table with his head in his hands. When he heard her approach, he looked up and gave her a small smile.

"Hey, there. Are you ready for today?"

Bolt looked like he hadn't slept for a week. His eyelids continued to droop as he yawned and stretched in his seat. He was dressed in a suit but even that looked like it had its life sucked out of it with its wrinkles and tears.

Digital tried not to wrinkle her nose at his dark, disheveled hair. "Are you?"

Bolt noticed Digital's wandering eyes. "Just a bit tired from work. Got home late last night like Mom did. Only got a few hours of sleep. Been like this for the entire month."

"Did you eat breakfast?"

Her brother shook his head. "I was too busy making arrangements for Dad's..." Bolt quickly glanced at Digital as if he had forgotten she was there, "erm...mishap."

Digital decided against another shouting match. "We still have a few hours," she said as she glanced at the clock and held out her hand. "Change into your pajamas and give me the suit. I'll make breakfast and while you eat, we'll see if I can sew some of these rips back together."

Bolt blinked. "Digital..."

"Just go. I've got nothing better to do anyway."

After forcibly shoving her brother towards his bedroom and grabbing the suit, Digital headed back to the kitchen and placed a couple slices of bread in the oven. While it baked, Digital took out her mother's old sewing kit and carefully pulled out thread and a needle.

"Don't poke yourself," said Bolt as he strolled back clad in their Dad's old shirt and sweat pants.

Digital raised her eyebrows. She'd been doing this for years. Since their mother was rarely home, she had no choice but to step up and play housekeeping for most of the day, even though she was the youngest in the family.

"Tell me what's going on," said Digital as she threaded the needle.

"I don't know-"

"Yes, you do. Everyone does except me. I may only be thirteen but I'm old and mature enough to understand. And even if I wasn't, I'm still part of the family and I deserve to know!"

Stomping her foot at that last point probably didn't help sell her "mature" nature, but at this point she was far from caring.

Bolt sighed. "Dad's been in an accident."

This wasn't anything new. Their father offered himself as a human tester for the lab experiments in the district. Accidents came with the job; everyone understood this. But if her mother was looking that pale...

"He was testing this memory machine. Apparently, something went wrong with the wires and well..." Bolt took another breath. "There's a chance he won't be able to recognize anyone, including you."

Digital's hands hovered over her needlework. Her father was a total slob and slept most days but she still loved him. He was family and you're not supposed to forget family.

But there was a chance that he would.

"Where did Mom and Data go?" asked Digital rising up from her chair and setting the suit aside.

"The company sent dad to the infirmary. They're going to see if Dad's all right."

"We need to be there with him too," said Digital as she sprinted towards the door. "Let's go now!"

"No. The reaping will start soon. There's no way you can find Dad and get back here in time to prepare. Look at yourself. You're still in pajamas and you haven't washed your hair-"

"Well you're one to talk."

"I'll just run a comb through it and put back on the suit. The tears are small; no one's going to notice. And we still haven't eaten. After the reaping, we'll come home and sort this all out, all right?"

"But Dad-"

"Digital." Bolt walked towards his sister and knelt on one knee. "You can see him later. But remember: After the reaping."

"What if I...the escort...my name..."

Bolt smiled. "Your name is only in there two times. There's no way they're going to pick you. Now come on, I smell something burning in the kitchen."

* * *

"The reaping's today..."

"You think we may have a winner this year?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course no one will-"

"Well, if I was reaped for the games, you can bet I'm gonna kick all kinds of ass!"

The group of girls emerging from the school gates turned to see Rick leaning against the wall, grinning as he tipped his cowboy hat.

One of the younger girls giggled which made Rick grin even wider but it immediately faltered when the eldest girl elbowed her in the ribs and scurried the group away from the school.

If he weren't waiting for his brothers to hurry the hell up and finish their teacher conferences or whatever they did after school (he seriously doubted their hold ups were due to girls; those types of situations were reserved for himself), he would've followed. Instead, he had to resort to winking at another girl who walked past the gates after giving him the evil eye.

Rick sighed against the wall. Girls. Was the cowboy hat not working for them or something?

He plucked the thing off his head and started examining it for rips and ink blots before it was snatched out of his hands by one of his brothers.

"Hey, look, I'm a cowboy too!"

Neil waved the hat back and forth before setting it on his head. Being only six, the hat covered his eyes and nose as he tried to run down the sidewalk.

"Did you know," said Rick's other brother, Craig, as he walked through the gates with his nose in a book, "that you have a higher chance of scoring a date with a chick if you can successfully pull off the cowboy accent and persona?"

"What do you think I've been doing for the past few years?" asked Rick as he grabbed the hat off Neil before he could walk into a pole. His mother would throw a fit if her dear Neil came home bearing a bruise on the forehead that, in Rick's opinion, would match his brain size perfectly.

"The key word is 'successfully'," said Wiley, adjusting his glasses as he came up behind Craig.

"Oh yeah?" Rick turned to face his oldest brother. "Let's see you to better."

Rick promptly clamped the cowboy hat on Wiley's head, adjusted his glasses, and shoved him forward, hoping he would bump into that cute blonde walking just a couple steps ahead and not Neil who was currently picking his nose.

Wiley stumbled a few feet before ramming into a girl with brown hair and freckles. The girl emitted a squeal before clutching her purse as she started head-first towards the ground. Wiley reacted quickly, sidestepping Neil and throwing out his arms, barely catching the girl before face met floor.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Wiley started blubbering as he helped the young lady get back on her feet. "My brother over there-"

Rick tore the book from Craig's hands and jammed his nose in the pages.

"Er, well you can't see his face but-"

"It's quite all right," said the girl, giggling slightly. "I'm unhurt, thanks to you."

"Yeah but it was thanks to me that-"

"Hey, aren't you in my class?"

Rick lowered the book slightly to catch a glimpse of the girl and Wiley chatting it up, his brother's face turning red as he stammered every now and then. His eyes nearly shot out of his sockets when he saw the girl write something down on a piece of paper and hand it to Wiley.

"Give it back!" Craig grabbed the book back from Rick's hands before immersing himself in the story once again.

"What is that?" asked Rick, pointing to the slip of paper as Wiley slowly walked back to his brothers, cowboy hat still perched on his head.

Wiley held it up. "She gave me her number. We have a study date scheduled."

Rick willed his jaw to stay put. "Can I see that? You know, just to make sure it's not fake or anything."

The second Wiley held out the slip, Rick snatched it from his brother's fingers and bolted.

"Hey!"

"Mine now!" taunted Rick as he as he blew a raspberry and headed for home.

"Give it back!"

"You can't make me!"

"Idiot," muttered Craig as Neil ran after them. "He could've just bribed him with the cowboy hat."

* * *

"I don't see them," said Digital, standing on her tiptoes as they waited in line to sign in.

"They'll come," said Bolt. "Don't worry."

"You promised," said Digital after they had taken her blood. "After the reaping."

Bolt nodded. "After the reaping. Now go find your friends."

Digital hesitated before nodding and running off to place herself among other 13-year-olds. Truth be told, she didn't really have any friends. Since she stayed home so often to keep the house running, she didn't have time to stay after school or go to any parties. Not that she minded, she loved spending the day with her brothers. It was only during times like the reaping where she felt a twinge of annoyance about the consequences of such a big responsibility for a girl her age.

The reaping hit off as usual: a welcoming from the mayor, the video of the Dark Days, a few (high-pitched) words from the escort before her stubby fingers dipped into the reaping bowl to pull out a slip of paper.

"Digital Jones."

* * *

"Well...that's no way to treat a lady," said Rick as he watched a couple of kids snicker at the chosen tribute, her black puffy hair bouncing at her shoulders.

The girl looked around with wide hazel eyes as she slowly made her way towards the stage and up the stairs. Her eyes seemed to be searching frantically for someone in the audience – probably comfort from a family member.

"And for your boys..." The escort reached into a reaping ball once again.

"Rick Corr!"

Rick's first instinct was to tug down his cowboy hat. If he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him. But just as he seriously considered hiding in the dark forever, a wave of conversations washed over his ears.

_Well, if I was reaped for the games, you can bet I'm gonna kick all kinds of ass!_

_You can bet District 3 will have a winner if Rick Corr was chosen for the games!_

_Psh, I can totally win. Just watch me._

Did those voices belong to him? Did he really say that?

The sound of the Peacekeepers approaching immediately dispersed the voices.

And Rick's hesitation.

"Aw yeah!" exclaimed Rick, narrowly missing a Peacekeeper's head as he fist-pumped into the air.

"Are those chubby fingers of yours filled with luck, lady?" he shouted at the surprised escort. "Cuz you just picked yourself a District 3 winner! Make way people; the Hunger Games won't be able to handle Rick Corr!"

Guessing what the Peacekeepers' confusing faces looked like was amusing as Rick headed towards the stage. As he climbed the stairs and walked towards the center, his eyes scanned the audience for his brothers. They weren't difficult to find, really.

The 17-year-olds had given Wiley a very large personal bubble as he started twitching and mumbling a string of nonsense, all while adjusting his glasses every five seconds.

Neil was screaming in his mother's arms in the family section though Rick doubted he was shouting for his brother to come back.

Then there was Craig. The only reason Rick could spot him easily in the sea of 12-year-olds was because of his bright, red book. He had looked up at the sound of Rick's name and didn't take his eyes off his brother when he approached the stage. Craig's mouth didn't move, but Rick got the message loud and clear.

_Did you know that you have a higher chance of kicking the bucket in the Games if you act like a brave, foolish idiot?_

* * *

**District 6**

"Meeting's tonight."

The words hit Rosh like a punch in the gut. He had heard these words a hundred times before but there was something in the man's voice suggesting a change. Were things finally turning around? New members? Had something happened in the other districts?

Yet, the only words that came out of Rosh's mouth were, "Why?"

The man shook his head. "Not here. Just come to the meeting. Same time, same place."

And with that the man gave him a nod before taking off to warn the others. Despite the mystery, Rosh managed a smirk. If it was that important for him to come searching for Rosh, things had to be looking up.

"The reaping is starting soon."

Or not.

"There's a chance that it could be you."

_Damn it, Rigel. _

Rosh whirled around to see his brother standing before him with a stoic expression, clutching a white bag of questionable content. It was only questionable to other onlookers; Rosh knew all too well it was morphling.

That drug was pretty much the basis of brothers' life. It was the reason why it came crashing down and the reason why they still haven't hit rock bottom. Their mother was an addict and one day overdosed on the drug, sending her children to a community home (which, according to Rosh, is far from a home). But even though it sent the boys on the streets (Rosh wagered that living outside was safer than in the community home), Rigel threw himself into the market and started selling morphling for one of his mother's old friends. It was risky, but it kept food in their mouths, as if the drug was trying to compensate for what it did to their family.

Rosh didn't complain much. He loved the streets where you could have the freedom to roll in the mud and play with dirt without having any frantic housekeepers give you crap for it. To be honest, he wouldn't know what he'd look like if someone hosed him down from head to toe. His face was always covered in layers of grime and the same could be said for his tangled mess of blonde hair which matted down towards the front while sticking up in the back. His clothes were thin, torn, and baggy but it didn't stop him from swaggering around town with his signature grin as if saying, "I'm a street urchin and proud of it."

But even he couldn't say no when a man approached him and asked him to be present at a little "party." Supposedly, the gathering was supposed to celebrate the man's birthday but in reality, it was a meeting to discuss a possible revolution. Not one that simply protested the harsh life of the poor or simply attacked the peacekeepers. A full-scale rebellion against the Capitol and Snow. Of course, the promising battle between the Capitol and the districts that would once again decide the fate of Panem couldn't happen for a few years, but it never would if they didn't start acting now.

Phase One included recruiting interested members and organizing possible headquarters once the real action would start. But for now, it was simply weekly meetings and the occasional introduction of a new member or two. Rosh had been scouted only a few months ago. As the eyes and ears of the street, he was the perfect candidate for scoping out and passing on messages, a position he gladly accepted. Rosh had invited Rigel to participate as well, but the latter had a different view.

"You're wasting your time. Haven't you and you little...pals learned anything from the Dark Days?"

Rosh merely grinned. "Won't happen to us. We can change things, I know it. I trust them."

"Trust is for fools. You don't even know much of their plans, like why they're inviting you to the meeting tonight."

"I know it's for something important if they deviated from the weekly schedule. I know about Phase One."

"What about Phase Two?"

"They're working on it. They haven't finished the finer details yet but when they do, they'll inform me and the rest of the team."

Rigel rolled his eyes. "There are only two types of people in this world, Rosh. Those who are smart enough to live in the real world and those who are foolish enough to think they can make a difference. You are part of the latter and people will only use you for what you have before they throw you away."

Rosh had heard this speech before, give or take a few words. But it didn't stop him from giving his brother a thumbs-up that annoyed him to no end before casually walking off to prepare for the reaping.

* * *

Something was wrong with the screen.

Cass couldn't quite put her finger on what (standing away from the stage watching frantic Peacekeepers scramble around the thing certainly wasn't helping) but it didn't stop her hands from twitching as they always did whenever something needed fixing. Of course, the situation at hand presented a more electrical problem than a mechanical one, but it was a problem all the same. And being unable to solve problems made Cass jumpy.

"The reaping should've started a few minutes ago," said Cass's friend, Anabelle as she glanced at her watch. "Why can't they just start without having to watch the video?"

"If the video is broken, the recording cameras must be too," replied Cass. Though her eyes were glued to the Peacekeepers and ears focused on Anabelle, her mind drifted off to a world of gears, mathematical formulas, and blue prints that she often used when assisting her father with his hovercraft mechanic work. If only she was allowed to leave her designated section...

"WAR. TERRIBLE WAR."

Nearly the entire district including Cass jumped at the sound of the booming narrator. The escort sitting onstage gave a loud squeal before quickly composing himself while the mayor simply shot up in his seat from his nap. The mentors hardly reacted; Cass assumed it was due to morphling.

Conversation immediately ceased as the video continued, Peacekeepers still fiddling around behind the stage to lower the volume. Just when the sound was reduced to a more tolerable level, the narration ended with the word "future", the cue for their escort to stand and welcome the district to another reaping.

Then it was time to select the female tribute.

"Ow, Cass!"

Cass jumped when she realized she had accidentally grabbed Anabelle's hand and squeezed it. "Sorry."

People were suddenly staring at her. Why were people staring at her? Anabelle didn't scream that loudly did she?

The girls in their section started forming a path, eyes full of pity as they rested on her.

Oh no.

Cass's heartbeat increased, her breathing became short. She quickly grabbed her friend's hand again but Anabelle didn't protest.

"Cass, breathe. People are watching."

Being reminded that she was on national television didn't help the slightest.

"ANABELLE!"

Cass fingers slipped from Anabelle's as a Peacekeeper tore her away from the 17-year-olds. Even as they dragged her towards the stage, she kept her eye on her friend.

There was no trace of panic in Anabelle's eyes as she continued to mouth the word, "breathe." Her hand rested on her stomach, her chest heaved up and down slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Cass nodded and before she knew it, she was standing on stage with her hand on her stomach as well, inhaling and exhaling. In and out. Why had she panicked so quickly in the first place anyway?

The escort approached the microphone again. "And now, for your male tribute..."

Oh, right. Cass felt her heart rate speed up again as the escort reached into the bowl.

"Rosh Tully."

* * *

They knew.

How? Why? When?

Rosh racked his brain searching for a reason why his name was picked but the only solution that pops up was punishment. The revolution.

But they've been so quiet. Careful. Patient. And it all boiled down to this?

Nevertheless, with his chin held high, Rosh calmly walked towards the stage and up the stairs. He didn't expect volunteers. In District 6, no one should. Family. Friends. Those didn't matter during the reaping. If your name is picked, you're going in.

But he sure as hell wasn't going in without a fight. As the escort congratulated the tributes, Rosh scanned the crowd for his brother or anyone from the District 6 Resistance. Anything to give him strength, to give him hope that he had a shot.

He found no one, all their faces were lost in the sea of citizens who pitied the reaped yet were secretly celebrating the fact that their child got to live another year.

_There are only two types of people in this world, Rosh._ Rigel's voice echoed in his head._ Those who are smart enough to live in the real world and those who are foolish enough to think they can make a difference._

_No, _thought Rosh as his district partner, a girl looking of East-Asian descent, squeezed his hand tightly to the point where he had to yank it out of her grasp. _There are only two types of people in this world. Those who break down and those who break through. Me? I'm the type who will be crowned victor of this year's Hunger Games._

**Some characters had more focus than others. This may be due to the length and quality of the profile or because I thought the story would flow better this way. But don't worry, I'll try to address those characters with less focus more in future chapters.**

**This is the Hunger Games. 23 of your tributes will die, as you know. Character deaths will be based on a number of things some of which include story arcs, realism, and whether the submitter is reviewing the story. The only reason that this is included is that I think this is fair, because I'd like to keep tributes in the Games longer (if possible) if I know that the submitter is reading the story, and the only way for me to know this is if you review. If not, I have no idea whether or not you're reading the story. You all knew the odds when you submitted a tribute. I'd love it if you stuck around and continued to read the story if/when your tribute perishes, but if not I understand. I'm not trying to be one of those evil, "review or I'll kill your tribute" authors. There are many other factors taken into account, and I really do cherish and appreciate every review I get. I just don't think it's fair if I'm wavering between two tributes to keep in, to kill off one who's creator is reviewing if the other is not or something like that.****  
****(Taken from Emerald112's SYOT which you should read by the way).**

**I'd love it if you guys could answer some of the questions I have for you at the end of the chapter. (But of course, it's not mandatory).**

**_Which tribute from this chapter stood out to you?_**

**_How was my writing? Constructive criticism is welcomed._**

**Expect an update in about a week! You can check my profile for story updates/status.**


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